Breakfast
by diayang
Summary: He shoots, he cleans, he goes on missions, and he cooks. Gary 'Roach' Sanderson is a man of many talents.


Title: Breakfast  
Author: diayang  
Rating: K  
Summary: He shoots, he cleans, he goes on missions, and he cooks.  
Disclaimer: Call of Duty:Modern Warfare 2 (c) Infinity Ward  
A/N: This entire episode of shenanigans was inspired by the chickens in the markets as you work through the favela, although it's not set in Brazil. Yes, I just finished Hornet's Nest. I nearly killed Roach for spending a little too long staring at Soap's ass.

Just don't let him know that.

* * *

"Wait, what the hell, you cook now?"

The noisy demand preceded a couple of 141 members - namely Meat, Chemo and Royce, as they trooped into the kitchen, lured by the heady aroma of coffee perking and something delicious frying.

Roach scowled, turning to fire back with amazing acerbity.

"What, and you've never learnt how to boil water in survival?"

"Whoa, whoa, check your fire man, friendly fire!" Meat all but cackled in merriment as he plopped his ass down at the table, making a good show of sniffing at the air. Whatever Roach had on the stove, it sure smelt like glory - or like fresh eggs and bacon, and apparently the little unkillable fuck had lucked out and managed to get bread for toast. Chemo and Royce followed behind him at a more sedate pace, the latter heading straight for the mugs and the coffeemaker. "Now that's the stuff, god_damn_! The hell you learn to do all this shit from?"

"Watch and learn, Meat, watch and learn. Pays to keep your eyes open for more than just tangos and big booty," Royce spoke up, handing out an assortment of mismatched mugs. This earned him a snort from Roach and a chuckle from Chemo. "Next thing you know _you're_ gonna be the one on the stove fryin' up like bacon."

"Yeah, you can't be called 'meat' for nothing."

"Man, go fuck yourselves, shit," he grinned goodnaturedly, watching Roach's hands move as he shoved around something in the pan with a cooking... thing. "Ain't no cannimal."

"I think you mean _'cannibal'_," broke in a new voice. Appearing from out of nowhere, much like his namesake, there he stood, tall and dirt-smudged and amazingly - or perhaps terrifyingly - without his mask. Ghost stripped off his gloves as he beelined for the food, prompting Roach to bark out a 'wash your hands' with a belated 'sir'.

Immediately, Ghost pinched his cheek.

Hard.

"Oww oww OWW OWW WHAT THE FUCK GHOST WHA - "

"Ghost! That's enough, I like my FNG's with fresh-scrubbed pink cheeks still intact, unlike the nothing what's on your skeletal mug," Soap ordered from the doorway, poking his head in on his way through to quarters. Granted, he had some of the most capable, deadly, and efficient soldiers on the planet gathered under his command, but as regular people, they were a little...

"Now where's the fun in that, MacTavish?" yelled Ghost, gleefully diverting his attention to the CO, while the rest of the _Homo Idiotus _stationed at the table hooted with riotous laughter. "Bring your arse in and get a load of this. Roach just made us breakfast."

"Ach, laddie, why didn't ye go the full nine yards and serve it to us in bed, too, while you were at it?"

"Piss off, christ, you ungrateful motherfuckers," he growled, turning off the stove and slamming the pan down onto the counter with a little more force than necessary, turning to glare at the cackling mob of monkeys in the kitchen. "See if I even bother to steal chickens for you assholes anymore, _god_."

"Sergeant Gary Roach Sanderson, I did not just hear that. Ghost, my office once you're done. Lads - you got thirty minutes, then I want the whole damned lot of you out back on the firing range , and don't let me catch yer arses fuckin' around in the kitchen throwing food at each other, alright?"

"Not gonna stay for a cuppa, Soap?" pressed the XO, stuffing his gloves in a pocket. Ghost he might be, but underneath that, Simon Riley was only human, and the human part of him demanded food, glorious food. "Smells bloody good, too."

"Yeah, Soap, be a shame if you hadta wander off without at least sampling Roach's brew here." Meat had his hands wrapped around a mug with a kitten printed on a cracked side, an expression of bliss spreading across his face as he gulped down bitter black death like water. "Mmm-mmm. This some _good _shit."

Roach turned to the sink to wash up and hide a pleased flush, not meeting Royce's knowing, sharp-eyed gaze. The rest of the 141 in the kitchen started to divvy up the food, with appreciative sounds and comments tossed Roach's way.

Soap raised a brow. "Well, I suppose I've got five to piss away with you boys," he conceded easily. Ghost privately thought that it was a _little _too easy. "Hand me a fork, Chemo, before Meat shovels up everything."

"Wash your hands first, you f... I mean _sir_! Don't forget to wash your hands, sir, oh god no I'd like to keep my cheeks intact, sir, I'm sorry OH CHRIST JESUS MACTAVISH NO - "

* * *

"Worth it?"

"Barely," grumped Roach. He shifted uneasily on the cot, eyes firmly shut against the darkness and blanket drawn up against the cool night air. He was more convinced than ever that MacTavish was an evil, evil bastard. "Maybe the notion of spanking's hot for some sick fucks like you, Ghost, but not for me, and not. In front. Of the whole. Fucking. Team."

"Well then. Suppose it's a good thing we don't have anything slated for the next few days, eh?"

"Shut up, Ghost. Just... just shut up."


End file.
